Read Online Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Arnold
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the Holy Mother for his silence.
‘Now?’ she asked as she reached Quigg’s side.
Quigg pointed to the street corner from whence the patrol had come. ‘Turn right there, on to Little East Cheap. It is a short way after that.’
‘Then let us make haste.’
‘We were speaking of the Peace Party,’ Quigg said as they rounded the corner. ‘You may not like them, madame, but they are the key to this scheme of yours, mark me well.’
‘They are up in arms?’
Quigg scratched at his crooked nose. ‘Not yet. It is mostly the womenfolk, truth be told, but the resentment festers, nonetheless.’ He brandished his empty gums in the semblance of a smile. ‘The pot bubbles, so to speak. A touch more heat and we could have a proper uprising on our hands.’ Without warning, he took Lisette’s elbow, steering her down a narrow alley that seemed to taper with each step. At a point where it was nearly impossible for them both to walk along the passageway shoulder to shoulder, he abruptly stopped by a low, studded door. ‘And here,’ he said, rattling the stout timbers with a distinctive knock that she guessed was some kind of code, ‘we shall meet the man who will bring our pot to the boil.’
The door groaned loudly as it swung inwards, and Quigg bent beneath the wizened lintel. Lisette followed more slowly. Inside, a pair of fat candles flickered in placings on the wall, but they did not offer a great deal of illumination. There was also a window, open to encourage some semblance of a breeze, but it was high and small, and the result was a stiflingly muggy interior.
Lisette loitered near the threshold as a woman closed the door at their backs, increasing the gloom all the more. But by now her eyes were becoming more accustomed to their new surroundings, and she studied the woman closely. She was about forty years old, with mousy hair swept away from her high forehead and carefully captured beneath a coif. That garment, like the long apron that covered the rest of her bony frame, was stained with smudges of black. The woman acknowledged Lisette with a nervous nod.
‘This,’ Quigg announced, ‘is Goodwife Greetham.’
‘God save you, Goody,’ Lisette said.
‘And I,’ came a voice from deeper into the room, ‘am Henry Greetham.’
Lisette and Quigg turned to see the speaker. He was tall; perhaps, she thought, similar in height to Stryker, but of a far leaner build. His face was cadaverously hollow, with cheeks like craters dug beneath deep-set eyes and jutting cheekbones. His jaw was heavy with stubble, darkening the skin around a narrow mouth.
A smiling Quigg approached him, making to grasp the man’s hand, but Greetham shook his head with a wry smile, lifting palms vertical as though he pushed open an invisible door. They were black as jet, shimmering like the surface of a deep pool in the guttering light. ‘A hazard of my trade, I am sorry to say.’
Quigg turned to Lisette, grinning toothlessly in triumph. ‘Printer’s ink.’
‘I can see that,’ Lisette replied testily, though Quigg’s speed at arranging this meeting had been impressive.
They moved further into the room, and Lisette was instantly overwhelmed by the smell of the place. She caught her breath and waited a moment to steady herself.
Greetham seemed to read the discomfort on her face, for he grimaced. ‘The paper and ink make for a most rich odour, do they not? But you are most welcome.’ He beckoned to them, and they followed him into an antechamber at the rear of the dwelling, Mistress Greetham busily tidying the little house in their wake.
At the doorway to the rearmost room was a young lad of about ten. He, like his parents, had blackened fingernails and deeply stained clothes. He was red-haired, thickly freckled and as skinny as his father.
Greetham patted the boy’s head, striding past him into the room. ‘My son, David. He is my apprentice. One day my successor. It takes skill and diligence to work her, but he learns
‘Now?’ she asked as she reached Quigg’s side.
Quigg pointed to the street corner from whence the patrol had come. ‘Turn right there, on to Little East Cheap. It is a short way after that.’
‘Then let us make haste.’
‘We were speaking of the Peace Party,’ Quigg said as they rounded the corner. ‘You may not like them, madame, but they are the key to this scheme of yours, mark me well.’
‘They are up in arms?’
Quigg scratched at his crooked nose. ‘Not yet. It is mostly the womenfolk, truth be told, but the resentment festers, nonetheless.’ He brandished his empty gums in the semblance of a smile. ‘The pot bubbles, so to speak. A touch more heat and we could have a proper uprising on our hands.’ Without warning, he took Lisette’s elbow, steering her down a narrow alley that seemed to taper with each step. At a point where it was nearly impossible for them both to walk along the passageway shoulder to shoulder, he abruptly stopped by a low, studded door. ‘And here,’ he said, rattling the stout timbers with a distinctive knock that she guessed was some kind of code, ‘we shall meet the man who will bring our pot to the boil.’
The door groaned loudly as it swung inwards, and Quigg bent beneath the wizened lintel. Lisette followed more slowly. Inside, a pair of fat candles flickered in placings on the wall, but they did not offer a great deal of illumination. There was also a window, open to encourage some semblance of a breeze, but it was high and small, and the result was a stiflingly muggy interior.
Lisette loitered near the threshold as a woman closed the door at their backs, increasing the gloom all the more. But by now her eyes were becoming more accustomed to their new surroundings, and she studied the woman closely. She was about forty years old, with mousy hair swept away from her high forehead and carefully captured beneath a coif. That garment, like the long apron that covered the rest of her bony frame, was stained with smudges of black. The woman acknowledged Lisette with a nervous nod.
‘This,’ Quigg announced, ‘is Goodwife Greetham.’
‘God save you, Goody,’ Lisette said.
‘And I,’ came a voice from deeper into the room, ‘am Henry Greetham.’
Lisette and Quigg turned to see the speaker. He was tall; perhaps, she thought, similar in height to Stryker, but of a far leaner build. His face was cadaverously hollow, with cheeks like craters dug beneath deep-set eyes and jutting cheekbones. His jaw was heavy with stubble, darkening the skin around a narrow mouth.
A smiling Quigg approached him, making to grasp the man’s hand, but Greetham shook his head with a wry smile, lifting palms vertical as though he pushed open an invisible door. They were black as jet, shimmering like the surface of a deep pool in the guttering light. ‘A hazard of my trade, I am sorry to say.’
Quigg turned to Lisette, grinning toothlessly in triumph. ‘Printer’s ink.’
‘I can see that,’ Lisette replied testily, though Quigg’s speed at arranging this meeting had been impressive.
They moved further into the room, and Lisette was instantly overwhelmed by the smell of the place. She caught her breath and waited a moment to steady herself.
Greetham seemed to read the discomfort on her face, for he grimaced. ‘The paper and ink make for a most rich odour, do they not? But you are most welcome.’ He beckoned to them, and they followed him into an antechamber at the rear of the dwelling, Mistress Greetham busily tidying the little house in their wake.
At the doorway to the rearmost room was a young lad of about ten. He, like his parents, had blackened fingernails and deeply stained clothes. He was red-haired, thickly freckled and as skinny as his father.
Greetham patted the boy’s head, striding past him into the room. ‘My son, David. He is my apprentice. One day my successor. It takes skill and diligence to work her, but he learns
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